The Consultant
by TheMidnightOwl
Summary: AU in which John Watson is a brilliant Medical Examiner whose pastimes include consulting Scotland Yard on their more baffling medical mysteries. Sherlock Holmes is a shy, anxious, altogether unimposing but very capable forensic technician who is most at home at a crime scene or in his lab, though he'll never admit to just how fascinated he is by violent crime.


The Consultant

Lestrade had only told him two things: firstly, that he was bringing a specialist to the most recent crime scene and that no one was to touch anything until he was finished. Secondly, that he was under no circumstances allowed to punch their guest. Sherlock found it kind of odd that Greg had to lead with that. He'd never been prone to violence, but he supposed that remark was not aimed at him specifically. It was unlikely Sherlock would work up the courage to speak to him. It wasn't that Sherlock was socially inept or awkward, he just strayed towards the shy end of the spectrum.

Not that he had a problem with this. In the field of forensics, there weren't very many others one had to work directly with. It wasn't about what people could tell him, it was about what the evidence could tell him. People were manipulative and prone to lies. Physical evidence, however, could never lie. And he was very good at reading the evidence left behind by the victim and the assailant. Sometimes it was not only what was present at the scene that mattered, but also what was absent. He was good at filling in the gaps. Not the best in the world, maybe, but university had taught him not to be too modest if you wanted the really interesting cases. After graduating among the top of his class, he allowed himself a healthy ego. Never pushing vanity, but confidence was key when presenting your findings to the Detective Inspector. Fortunately, Greg was a friend, one that he could approach easily; certainly easier than Dimmock.

That they were bringing a specialist directly to a crime scene was certainly a new one. Unsurprising for the police to consult with experts of certain fields when bizarre details came up - artists, collectors, hunters, whatever the case needed - but to bring one directly to a crime scene was risky. He could not help but make a mental list of all of the possible ways an untrained guest could accidentally contaminate a scene. Lestrade understood as well as he that crime scenes were fragile and that the faster the forensics technicians were able to process it, the more likely the evidence would be able to speak to them, though, so Sherlock was willing to give this mystery guest the benefit of the doubt for now. He trusted Lestrade's judgement.

When they arrived at the scene, Sherlock could not stop himself from crossing the police tape and preparing his kit. Maybe he wasn't allowed to touch anything yet, but he could at least get a feel for the scene so he could rule out the extraneous details in his head. (Of course he would still process everything, but every now and again he could tell that something would simply be irrelevant.) The less time they wasted on dead-ends, the better. He snapped open his forensics kit and pulled on a pair of latex gloves, rubbing his hands together afterwards just to feel the thin barrier.

He stood patiently on the sideline, flashing Greg a reassuring (albeit slightly uncomfortable) half smile. Greg, on the other hand, was pacing; their guest was late, it seemed. Sherlock folded his hands in front of him to keep from fidgeting, gripping his left wrist. Everyone seemed particularly antsy to get going. Donovan was being rather loud about it. Sherlock just ducked his head, not wanting to irritate her further but wishing she'd lay off of Greg about it. Realistically, a few minutes' delay would not stop them from catching the assailant. He wasn't much good in the field of profiling, but so far this crime scene screamed sloppy to him, and sloppy killers were always caught quickly.

Movement in Sherlock's peripheral vision caused him to look up. A black cab had pulled up to the side of the street just outside the police tape. Greg visibly relaxed and walked over to greet the man stepping out of the back of the cab. Impeccably dressed and on the shorter side, he held himself like he was the tallest person there. He took Greg's offered hand almost like an afterthought, his gaze already peering downwards towards the drop off from the road. Every step towards the police tape screamed of confidence, proper upbringing, and expensive schooling. Sherlock felt himself shying away already.

Swiftly pulling the tape over his head, their guest strode down into the small ditch where the body of the young woman lie in a heap, pale and bruised. He stepped delicately around her, head tilted slightly to the right. Eventually he stopped just behind her head, viewing the body upside down. Sherlock just watched him, unsure of what else to do.

The man said nothing for a full minute, remaining completely still, but Sherlock could see that while he was unmoving, he was certainly not inactive. His round, deep blue eyes swept over the body, ticking back and forth as he drank in every detail of her position. What he hoped to find by simply looking at her, Sherlock was unsure of. Could Greg have seriously called in a man for nothing more than another set of eyes? At the man's stoic pose, head cocked, hands in the pockets of his (no doubt expensive) suit, Sherlock suddenly thought of an American police crime drama, where the Federal Bureau of Investigation would suddenly hijack cases from the local police just to stand around looking sharp and mysterious. He bit his lip to prevent himself from giggling. This was a crime scene; he couldn't giggle.

"Lestrade," The man called suddenly in a voice of average pitch but military astuteness. Greg was at his side in four long bounds. The man did not react. "Call back to the Yard and tell them to stop looking for an adult male on the run." Lestrade just stared at him. A thin, amused smile crept on the man's face. "You're dealing with an amateur."

"Amateur?" Lestrade echoed. "It looks pretty spotless to me."

"Perhaps you should consider glasses then," The man remarked. "This is sloppy, too sloppy for anyone who knew what they were doing. A kid, definitely, perhaps of slightly above average intelligence or simply watches too many crime dramas. But real life is always different than the telly."

"Right," Lestrade looked at the body for a moment. Sympathy flashed on his face before he cleared it and looked back to the man, who was still smiling. "Care to walk us through it, then?"

The man finally turned to address him, lips spreading to a full grin. "I'd love to." Lestrade gestured to the body, and the man became suddenly very animated. "This is likely his first kill. He's already hit a learning curve, but this is still impeccably sloppy. The drag marks on the ground would suggest that she was not killed here, but the scuff marks in the dirt around her say otherwise. She was dragged here from the road after being subdued but the job was finished in this spot. The bruises on her arms, legs, and face suggest that she was beaten into submission, not drugged. Her assailant was taller than her. The finger bruises around her neck are thick, so most likely a male, and one she knew."

"How can you be sure?" Lestrade asked.

"Look where we are," the man spread his arms wide to gesture at their surroundings, "This place is remote, on the edge of the city. She was still alive when she got to this location. Very unlikely that she'd come out here with a stranger."

"She could have been kidnapped," Lestrade offered.

The man shook his head. "No ligature marks or defensive wounds. If it were a stranger she would have struggled from start to finish. She's an athlete, look at the muscle definition in legs, yet no defensive marks anywhere. You don't defend yourself against someone you know in fear of hurting them. You attempt to reason with them.

"Now, given that this is an athletic girl, and therefore not necessarily an easy target for a strangler, how do you make sure she stays down?" Lestrade shrugged, and the man smiled. "Simple. You strangle her more than once. Look at the bruises on her neck; some of them had started healing. You can see the various amounts of pressure applied. He dragged it out, cut off her oxygen in increments so she'd be too weak to fight. Most likely they were out on a walk or went for a drive and when he had her far enough away from any witnesses he surprised her, then dragged her down here and finished her off. The fact that he was able to do it with his bare hands and not a bag or a wire suggests significant strength. He didn't break her trachea though, not enough bruising for that."

Lestrade snorted. "Have you seen them break from just someone's hands before?"

The man's eyes actually sparkled. "Once. It was quite impressive."

"The way you're talking, you make it sound like he might want to do it again," Lestrade observed.

"Very possible," the man answered, "He enjoyed it. He dragged it out. I've never heard of anyone enjoying a kill as much as this guy clearly enjoyed this and not going back for seconds. He strangled her multiple times, always pulling off at the absolute last second before she passed out so that he could listen to her cough and beg and gasp for air. He's brutal, but that means he'll also be sloppy. Unlikely he even remembered to wear gloves. Your man over there will probably be able to lift a print from her neck. A partial at the least. After that it's just a matter of catching him before he works up the courage to try again." He did not look in Sherlock's direction, did not even gesture to him, just referred to him like he was not standing three feet away.

But Sherlock didn't mind. He barely even registered the last bit. He was too stunned at all this guest had seen with a single look. He was not sure whether he wanted to sing the man's praises or kill him so he wouldn't be out of a job.

"Anyway," the man breathed, almost sounding bored, "The autopsy's going to come back very straightforward, died of oxygen deprivation, nothing special whatsoever. Please do me the favour of assigning it to someone else so that my time is not wasted on something so mundane." He looked back at the victim again, eyes suddenly very far away. "This kid's got all of the makings of a potential serial killer. But he's young and inexperienced. Assuming the officers on duty tonight have any competence with assessing juvenile records, I'm sure you'll be able to find your offender by… well, within a fortnight, maybe." They exchanged sarcastic smirks.

Sherlock realized, with a hint of embarrassment, that he was gawking at their guest with his mouth agape. He closed it quickly, only to open it again to speak. "You can tell all of that from just the strangulation marks?" Despite his best efforts, his voice still sounded breathy.

The man turned and looked at him for the first time as he took the pair of latex gloves Lestrade offered him. He pulled them on with a look of confusion, as if Sherlock had not been standing there this whole time and had just now appeared. The man regarded Sherlock with the same intense gaze as he had the corpse. Sherlock fidgeted underneath the scrutiny, but refused to physically shy away.

"S-Sorry," he stammered, "It's just… how… I mean… that's brilliant!"

The man blinked, skipping a beat. "You think so?"

Sherlock felt a surge of confidence. His simple compliment had caught the man off guard. The stranger's features softened significantly as he looked upon Sherlock now. "Absolutely," Sherlock continued, "I mean you've been here for all of, what? Three minutes? And you already know what they should be looking for? That's remarkable." He hesitated. "Um, alright if I get to work on her now? They said you had first go. Unless you're not finished," he added hastily.

"By all means," the stranger gestured to the corpse with a gloved hand, taking a step back to grant Sherlock access. Sherlock crouched next to the dead girl and, remembering the stranger's earlier remarks, began dusting for prints around the throat. Strangulation cases rarely turned over prints anymore, as most wore gloves, and getting them off of skin was difficult with the oils already present on the skin, but sometimes they could get lucky if the grip was solid and they lingered after the victim was dead. This man's grip had definitely been strong. Sherlock flicked the brush gently over the exposed skin of the victim's neck, dusting a fine layer of powder over her skin in hopes of finding her assailant's signature.

"You might want to get a joystick mouse and a wrist pad for your computer," the man said suddenly from next to him.

Sherlock jumped a bit. "I-I'm sorry?"

"The way you're holding the brush," The man nodded at Sherlock's right hand, "Carpel tunnel syndrome. I see it a lot in my line of work. Unsurprising given your field. Joystick mice and wrist pads help to relieve the effects of carpel tunnel."

"Oh, huh," Sherlock said. He hadn't even considered the fact that he might have it. His wrists often hurt at the end of the day, but he figured so did most people's. He felt his lips quirk up in a half-smile. "And what is your line of work, may I ask? Lestrade didn't tell me much about you."

"Did he not? How rude of him." The stranger held out his hand. "Doctor John Watson. I'm a pathologist at St. Bart's hospital."

"Sherlock Holmes," he offered and shook the outstretched hand, smiling warmly before reviewing that information in his head. "Due respect, what are you doing here then? We've got a whole medical team by the road twiddling their thumbs."

Doctor Watson huffed. "And that's basically all they're good for, if you ask me. Detective Inspector Lestrade's a friend. He knows I can see more than those C-average, just-barely-graduates can. The Yard doesn't demand much integrity or ability from its medical examiners, just that they have a degree. I'm surprised they manage to learn anything from the bodies with the lack of talent they have in the mortuary. He calls me when he knows he's out of his depths, which is remarkably often."

Sherlock grinned wider. "Maybe not as often as you think. I've been working with him for years and we haven't met before."

"No," Doctor Watson's singular word sounded very far away, as if this fact was puzzling to him. Or Perhaps it was Sherlock he thought was puzzling. He couldn't tell. So he just tried focusing on the job at hand again.

Doctor Watson allowed him to work in silence for a while. They examined the body separately, for the most part, Doctor Watson mumbling to himself under his breath while he studied the bruises more intently. The tips of his fingers stroked each mark gingerly, as if feeling their texture but fearing to cause them any further discoloration. It was almost intimate, like the gentle touch of a loved one, soothing and protective, yet his clinical detachedness and disregard for the victim's sufferings or family contradicted the tenderness with which he treated her wounds. While Sherlock did not want to botch up the only time he would get with the body, he could not help but watch the man in front of him, listening to him mumble his internal monologue in between breaths.

Once he had done all he could do here, bagged and tagged all of the necessary trace evidence and photographed every conceivable angle, Sherlock pulled off his gloves and packed up his kit. Tomorrow was going to be a lot of logging and examining what he had found today. Maybe if he were lucky he could grab a few hours of sleep first.

Doctor Watson appeared next to him as he was walking to his car. "You're looking for a new flatmate," he said. It wasn't a question.

"Oh?" Sherlock asked, mildly alarmed.

"I saw you checking your email on your phone after you packed up your equipment," the doctor explained, "Someone had responded to your inquiry. Based on your expression I'd say it was bad news."

Sherlock shrugged. "Living in London is difficult. I'm trying to find something more comfortable than what I've currently got, which isn't much. The Yard's pretty cheap with their paychecks."

"Don't I know it," the doctor grumbled in agreement. "If you're having difficulty finding someone, you're welcome to stay with me."

Sherlock looked at him incredulously. "I'm sorry?"

"I've been looking for a flatmate for a week or two now," Doctor Watson explained, "I was renting with another person for a while but the whole arrangement just felt too much like my university years. I've got my eye on a nice little place in central London. Together we ought to be able to afford it. We can meet there tomorrow evening at seven o'clock, if you're available." He glanced over his shoulder briefly. "I'm guessing you might be in for a long night."

"I've a morning shift tomorrow," Sherlock said.

"Oh," Doctor Watson looked pleased, "Wonderful. I'll be coming right from my shift at the hospital. I'll just get your number from Lestrade and text you the address later. You look tired. I'll see you tomorrow evening, then."

Sherlock did a double take as the man walked away. "Is that it?" He called.

The man turned, eyeing him strangely. "Is that what?"

"We've only just met, and we're going to move in together?"

Doctor Watson smiled. "Problem?"

"No, I just," Sherlock laughed once, "Bit odd. Stuff never happens this easily for me."

The doctor looked like he had some sort of clever remark hanging on the tip of his tongue, but whatever it was, he allowed it to remain unsaid. He turned swiftly back round and got in to the cab that was waiting for him a few paces away. He must have called for one when Sherlock was examining the body.

Huffing once in amusement, Sherlock unlocked his car and ducked inside. In the course of a few hours he had gotten a new serial killer and a new potential flatmate. Stuff like this just did not happen to him. And yet, here it was. He wondered, briefly, if his astute new friend was always so precise and calculating. That could certainly make their future living arrangement a bit uncomfortable. But he supposed, like most professionals, that was simply his work behavior. He had joked briefly with Lestrade, after all. Maybe he wasn't so public school all the time.

Sherlock found himself sporting a large grin the entire drive home, one he could not wipe off. This Doctor Watson, in the few hours that Sherlock had known him, had easily become the most interesting person he'd ever met. When he got home to his small, plain little bedsit, a text message was waiting for him.

_The address for tomorrow is 221B Baker Street. I look forward to seeing you. JW_

He smiled and shook his head disbelievingly at his screen. Setting down his phone on his nightstand, he quickly changed his clothes and crawled in to bed.

_Tomorrow,_ he thought to himself, _I'll look this guy up if I have time. Surely there's a thing or two on the internet about him with a mind like that. Some awards maybe, news articles or something._ He breathed a laugh. _Doctor John Watson, consulting medical examiner. _

He was asleep before he could think much else.

[xxx]

Sherlock took a cab straight from Scotland Yard to the address Doctor Watson had texted him the previous night. The car stopped outside a pleasant group of buildings in a prime spot of the city, not far from Regent's park. After paying the fee, he approached the door marked 221B in ornate gold numbers. Shifting his weight anxiously, he weighed his options from here. Was he meant to knock or ring the doorbell? Or were they meeting outside?

Before he could lift his hand, a familiar voice sounded from behind him. "Hello," came the voice of Doctor Watson, striding towards him as his cab drove away.

"Ah, Doctor Watson," Sherlock said, outstretching his hand.

"John, please," the doctor corrected, taking Sherlock's offered hand with a solid grip and a friendly smile. He crossed over to the door and knocked twice.

"It's a prime spot, must be expensive," Sherlock remarked, glancing at their surroundings.

"I know Mrs. Hudson, the landlady," John explained, "She's giving me a special deal. Owes me a bit of a favour; a few years ago her husband was diagnosed with a terminal illness. I was able to assist."

"Wow, that's incredible," Sherlock breathed, "You were able to prevent him dying?"

The doctor's grin turned mischievous, resembling its off-kilter amusement last night at the crime scene. "Oh no, I ensured it." The door opened before Sherlock could say anything in response - not that he would know what to say to a medical man all but admitting to euthanasia. A short, sweetly-looking older woman stepped out and greeted John with a warm embrace. He was not much taller than her, while Sherlock still had a few inches on her from his spot two steps down. John introduced them briefly, and then lead the way inside and up the stairs to what was presumably flat B.

The first word that came to Sherlock's mind was "cozy." The second was neat-freak. Maybe that was technically two words. Regardless, it was clear that someone already habited this space, and they were obsessively organized. Two bookshelves flanked a stone mantlepiece, both completely filled with what looked to him like medical texts and journals. Twin chairs sat angled towards the fireplace, currently empty, but it looked operational. In the center of the room was a large desk stacked with neat columns of books, folders, and paper. In front of the accompanying desk chair was a Macbook. The coffee table to the right sat in front of a large leather couch, both bare, and behind those, a repetitive Victorian wallpaper, which changed from wall to wall. The room was not lit with lamps, but by two large, curtained windows facing the front of the building. As he stepped into the space, Sherlock peeked around to view the kitchen: a comfortable size, and just as organized as the sitting room. All of the appliances were pushed back against the wall to allow for counter space. The kitchen table was simple yet pristinely clean.

All in all, it definitely felt like a doctor's home, clean and organized.

"So, you live here already, then?" Sherlock asked.

"Yes, well," John offered him a smile, "I was a bit impatient. The flat that I was renting was less than ideal. When Mrs. Hudson informed me that she had a room available I wasn't about to sit on my hands until I could find a flatmate."

Sherlock nodded his understanding. "It's nice. Very nice."

"Yes," John scanned the room, a pleased smile on his face. "I thought so as well." He moved across the room, footsteps muted by the well-worn rug under his feet, to open and turn on his laptop. As he did, Mrs. Hudson emerged from the doorway.

"What do you think then, Mr. Holmes?" She asked with a smile. "There's another bedroom upstairs, if you'll be needing two bedrooms."

Sherlock clenched his jaw to keep it from dropping. He glanced at John, whose back was mostly to him, ensconced in his laptop screen, then back to Mrs. Hudson. "Um, well yes, of course we'll be needing two," he said cautiously.

"Oh don't worry, there's all sorts round here," She clarified, "Mrs. Turner next door's got married ones," she whispered at the end, then made her way to the kitchen. He heard her make a sound of disapproval as she opened the fridge. "John, for a medical man, you certainly don't seem put off by the presence of body parts next to food."

"Excuse me?" Sherlock nearly yelped.

"Work has to come home with me sometimes," John explained at a volume that could have almost been to himself. "They're all perfectly sterile," he called a little bit louder, still not turning his attention from his computer. He typed something out slowly before hitting the enter key with a dramatic gesture.

Sherlock swayed awkwardly before deciding to take a seat on the armchair closest to him, the one that looked decidedly less used. Hard to tell since it was clearly old, but based on the presence of papers on the table next to the leather one and no table next to this one at all, he assumed it was the one that Dr. Watson used less often. He did not want to feel like he was imposing on the man's space; best to get to know their bearings as quickly as possible. "So," he started lamely, "I looked you up on the internet last night."

John turned to him, expression carefully neutral but a spark in his eyes. "And did you learn anything interesting?" He asked.

"Well, I found all of your degrees. Did you really get your first PhD at age twenty-two?" He asked somewhat skeptically.

"Yes, and I got the other two within five years of that."

Sherlock just stared. "…How?"

John gave him a slanted smile and just turned back to his computer. Sherlock decided not to press it. "So, did you get anywhere with that strangler?"

"Hm? Oh, yes," Sherlock sat up a bit, "I pulled a partial from her neck, like you said there might be, and ran it against juvenile records this morning. Nothing big came up, just a couple of vandalism charges, but Lestrade went to the kid's house. He ended up breaking down as soon as Lestrade flashed his badge apparently and confessed to the whole thing. Saves us a lot of trouble, at least. They were processing him when I left. I figured I was done for the day." He smiled. "From what I heard of his story, it matched up with what you described last night."

"It usually does," John remarked, "Though I do miss a detail or two on occasion. You must fill me in on anything I didn't catch if you get a chance to glance at the report."

"Uh, sure," Sherlock offered lamely. He winced at himself; apparently being around a man so articulate was only making him less so.

"What about these suicides then, John?" Mrs. Hudson came around the corner holding the newspaper, "Thought that'd be right up your street. Three, exactly the same."

Flashing blue lights caught John's attention outside on the street below. "Four," he corrected curiously, "They just found a fourth. And there's something different about this one."

"A fourth?" Mrs. Hudson asked, concerned, as a pair of feet sounded up the steps. John turned around when they reached the top. Sherlock saw Lestrade step through the threshold.

"Where?" He asked, not bothering with pleasantries.

"Brixton, Lauriston Gardens," Lestrade answered immediately.

"What's happened, then?" Their conversation was quick.

"You know how they don't usually leave notes? This one did. Will you come?"

John looked pensive for a moment, his eyes darting fleetingly to Sherlock. "Who's on forensics?"

"It's Anderson," Lestrade looked hesitant to provide the name.

John scoffed. "You know Anderson detests me."

"Well he won't be your assistant," Lestrade implored.

"I _always_ have an assistant," John said.

"Shit, I'll be your ears again," Lestrade said, "Just, will you come?"

John sighed. "Not in a police car, I'll be right behind."

Lestrade bowed his head. "Thank you." As he turned to leave, he caught sight of Sherlock. "Oh," he said, "You two get on then?"

"He offered to let me room with him," Sherlock said. Lestrade was aware of his less-than-comfortable living arrangements. He nodded his approval before disappearing down the steps again. Behind him, John was beaming.

"What is it?" Sherlock asked.

"Four impossible suicides," John said. "_Four._ Oh, it's Christmas come early." He grabbed his coat from the hook on the door, ever the calm doctor but Sherlock could see absolute glee on his face. "Mrs. Hudson," he carried on, "I'll be out late, would you mind putting a plate out for me?"

"I'm your landlady dear, not your housekeeper," she quipped from the threshold of the kitchen.

"Any leftovers from your own supper will do, you always make too much anyway. Sherlock, have a cup of tea, make yourself at home. Don't wait up!" And he was out the door.

Mrs. Hudson beamed as she moved to stand beside Sherlock. "Look at him, all giddy with excitement. My husband was just the same. But you're much more timid, I can tell. I'll make you that cuppa, dear, you just get yourself situated, then."

"That's very kind of you," Sherlock called over his shoulder, reaching for the paper that she had placed on the table beside him.

"Just this once though dear, I'm not your housekeeper," she said warmly. He smiled up at her in return, and glanced at the headlines. More about those serial suicides; he frowned. No matter how much those suicides appeared to be suicides, they still didn't sit right with him. Suicidal thoughts didn't travel this quickly, and to have so many people in such a short amount of time kill themselves in the exact same way made him suspicious. But he wasn't part of the forensic team on that case, so he had no access to it.

"You're a forensic technician," John's voice suddenly said from the door. Sherlock nearly jumped out of his skin. "And a young one at that."

Clearing his throat, Sherlock stood up. "Yes."

"Good then, I'm assuming. The Yard seldom hires young ones unless they've proven themselves capable."

"Yes," Sherlock assented.

"Seen a lot of violent deaths, then," John kept stepping closer, his authoritative voice making up for his shorter stature. Sherlock felt positively tiny in his presence when he spoke like that. And yet somehow, very big at the same time, like his opinion actually mattered, hence the doctor's need to pry it out of him like that. "Gruesome scenes."

"Y-yes," Sherlock stammered, "Enough for a lifetime, already. Sometimes it can feel like too much."

John's lip twitched in excitement. "Wanna see something interesting?"

"Absolutely," Sherlock accepted with more vigor than he cared to think about just then. Wherever this man was going, Sherlock wanted to be there, if only to watch him work, and maybe feel just a little more of the value the doctor placed on him. Often times the forensic techs were undervalued by the policemen for which they worked, so to have the respect of someone whom the police respected was empowering, to say the least.

He followed John down the stairs, passed Mrs. Hudson, who was holding a cup of tea in her hands. "Sorry Mrs. Hudson," he apologized, "But I'm afraid I'll need to take a raincheck on that tea. We're headed off."

"Both of you?" She asked.

John turned back, grin plastered on his face. "Impossible suicides? Four of them? No sense hanging around here, the dead are finally being interesting again!"

"Look at you all happy, it's not decent," She gave him a playful swat.

"Indecency will have to be the way of it, then. The doctor is in, Mrs. Hudson." And he was out the door with a few long, confident strides. Sherlock followed hastily, and climbed into the back of the cab that John hailed with all the confidence of a captain directing his regiment.

_The man's a little insane,_ Sherlock thought, _but possibly the most self-aware psycho I've ever met. _ And his enigmatic nature and casual authority were certainly contagious, even if a little intimidating. As he followed the enigmatic doctor out the door, he could not help but smile to himself at the thought of gladly, and possibly enthusiastically, following this wonderful stranger to the end of their days.

[xxx]


End file.
